9/30/2024, 10:20pm | this entry focuses on grief, and contains some elements of unreality.
Grief ebbs and flows, it comes in at high tide, knocks you over when you finally turn your back. One day, you're attending your father's memorial service. The next, it's been nine years and four days since he passed away.
That solitary moment of grief, it grows, while everything and everyone else you’ve ever mourned comes back to haunt you.
Recently, I was reminded of the song Monsters. It had its moment in pop culture, being sung on American Idol by Iam Tongi for his audition, and as a duet with writer James Blunt in the finale. Both renditions are beautiful. There’s a line that, in particular, sticks out to me.
“I’m not your son, you’re not my father, we’re just two grown men saying goodbye.”My father will never know me by my chosen name, he’ll never know about the son I've grown up to be. I've become someone new, I'm coming into my own. My birthday is in a month. My father is frozen at 39, forever.
Grief doesn’t get smaller with time, and you never truly ‘move on.’ Your life continues on, and grows around the grief. Those memories are static, unchanging, and as time goes on there is a smaller and smaller part of your life spent with them.
I’ve lived for longer without my father than with him.
I think the painful part of grief is that loss of connection, and especially the loss of memory. You will never make another memory with this person again, you will never hear them laugh again, you will never see them smile, never learn more about what makes them tick.
It’s what makes parting ways with people hard, even when they’re still alive. There’s a finality to it that the brain doesn’t like.
When you can’t see someone, when it’s over, it’s hard to bear. Grief is hard to talk about, hard for others to relate to if they haven’t experienced it yourself. I find that more unconventional grieving experiences are even harder to bring up with people.
I almost never talk about how much I grieve over Hinata. Every New Year's Eve, I sit outside, quietly light a candle while the fireworks go off. It’s like a birthday celebration just for him.
My mother, my sibling, they know that it’s a delicate time for me. It’s as hard for me as the anniversary of my father’s passing, maybe even more so.
Like with my father, I try to celebrate his life in any way I can, though the good memories can feel like they’re taunting me. What's the point of remembering the profound kindness of someone you love, if you have to be separated for god knows how long?
I don’t remember much, but then again I don’t remember much of this life either. I remember the broad strokes, the narrative, and sometimes, just sometimes, there's a sudden burst of light and color and love.
I remember his smile, the way his cheeks bunched up when he was really smiling, not just doing it to placate someone. I remember sitting on the deck of our cottage, and the morning chill. I remember his hand in mine.
And for every memory, there's the reminder that I never know when I'll be able to make them with him again. I cling to the hope that one day, I'll be back in his arms. That this reality is another iteration of the Neo World Program. That he'll save me.
I think that hope is almost cruel. There's no finality to it, no closure, nothing like I have with my dad.
When I miss my father, I can hold the box of his ashes, knowing that this is as close as we'll ever get again. When I miss Hinata, I lay alone in my room, staring at the wall. Thinking of him. Fantasizing about finally waking up. Writing a verbose blog post about it.
There's no one I can talk to about this. I'm on my own, I'm an island. I pore over official media because it's all I have left. It's all I have left of the man I loved, the man I still love.
My dad existed, and he continues to exist in the memories of those who loved and continue to love him. There are so many people I can commiserate with, talk to about him. There's always something new.
I'm not the sole bearer of his memory. I'm not the last person on earth who can say, 'I knew him. I loved him. I loved him. I love him.’
The Inner Light from TNG is one of the best Star Trek episodes of all time. Give me a moment, I promise I’m going somewhere with this.
To grossly oversimplify, Captain Picard is whisked away by a probe into another life.
He learns the culture of Kataan, the planet he’s now inhabiting. He’s taught how to play a song on the flute by his new family. He clings to his memories of the Enterprise, the hope that one day his crew will find him again and he’ll be able to go home, that this won’t be forever.
He watches his children grow up. He watches his planet die. He watches a probe launch with his family, as they wish that someone will find it, and tell others about them.
'Oh, it's me, isn't it? I'm the someone. I'm the one it finds.’When he awakens, it's been a lifetime for him. It's been a grand total of 25 minutes on the Enterprise proper. His first officer, Riker, comes to his quarters later, holding the same flute he learned how to play all those minutes, years, ago.
With just a final look, Riker leaves. This is a moment for Picard and Picard alone.
He begins to play.
I’m on Kataan right now. I’m clinging to the memories of my life before, while building something new. I hope this life can become something as meaningful to me as the Ressikan people became to Picard.
I hope when I'm finally home, I can put my pen to paper, and still create something beautiful.
I'm not dead, but at least if I was I'd know it's over. This kind of half-death is agonizing, because the hope remains.
I wonder if I'll have to live this life to completion.
I wonder if I'll ever be able to wake up and ask, "How long?" and have the answer be "20, 25 minutes."